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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28826736">Many a Good Hanging</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingPagan/pseuds/DreamingPagan'>DreamingPagan</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>October Daye Series - Seanan McGuire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Canon-compliant through A Killing Frost, F/M, I hope that's all the major ones though, I solemnly swear I will not be hurting Simon in this, M/M, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath &amp; Recovery, Multi, Nothing explicit, Other characters to be tagged as I realize that they're plot-necessary, Pain interrupted by tooth-rotting fluff, Psychological Horror, Sylvester has a very bad day, Torture, brief mention of rape recovery, gentle ot3 smut, in this house we keep to the tradition, mainly just some foreplay and a bit of a suggestion of more, of fading to black when things get spicy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:33:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,065</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28826736</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingPagan/pseuds/DreamingPagan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sylvester Torquill is having a very bad day, and that's before Eira returns and mistakes him for Simon.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dianda Lorden/Patrick Lorden/Simon Torquill, Dianda Lorden/Simon Torquill, Luna Torquill/Sylvester Torquill, Patrick Lorden/Simon Torquill, Simon Torquill &amp; Sylvester Torquill</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Many a Good Hanging</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sylvester does not want to be the mad duke again.</p><p>The thought is clear in his head. He does not wish to be the man who frightened the servants and courtiers of Shadowed Hills alike. He does not want Luna to see him moon-mad and wild-eyed, divorced from the world as it goes on around him. He does not want that - and so Sylvester leaves the knowe and does not know where his feet and car are taking him until he reaches the apartment in the Castro district. He tries not to let that frighten him but it does. Worse - he has evidently brought both the keys and the real estate agreement with him and he does not recall laying hands on either between deciding he needs time away from his own home and walking out without, he is now sure, so much as a word to Etienne or to Jin or even to Luna. </p><p>He does not recall deciding to come here. He barely recalls authorizing the purchase of the property some six years ago, and he knows without a shadow of a doubt that he’s done nothing with the place since. He wishes with all his heart that he did not long to run farther than this, faster, that he did not wish to run until his lungs could no longer bear the running, away from this city and this kingdom and this life that has brought him here, paperwork in his hand and a small valise in his car that will hold him for a fortnight.</p><p><em> The supplies I’ve brought won’t last for long, </em> he thinks again as he mounts the stairs to the apartment complex. <em> I’ll need food ere long and toiletries and - </em></p><p><em> You’ve gone soft, </em> a nasty little voice in the back of his mind whispers, and Sylvester closes his eyes. Yes, he acknowledges - yes, he has. The soldier he’d been could have lasted for months on what he’s carrying with him. The Hero he was once upon a time could have turned them into whatever he wished and more - could have traded services, righted wrongs, <em> done something </em> and he could again if he stops being so utterly - <em> utterly - </em> if he stops being <em> the man that Luna loved once -  </em></p><p>Sylvester lets himself into the apartment and slams the door behind him and then sinks to the ground, back against the door, and allows himself to fall apart at last. </p><p>His heart is racing. His hands are clenched against his sides. There are tears of anguish threatening to spill down his cheeks and then he is sobbing, wrenching great tearing sobs of pain. He cannot hold out any longer. He cannot do anything but weep, and scream, and - </p><p>And he is in danger, danger, <em> danger </em> because the smell of smoke and rotten oranges is in the room and that can only mean <em> one </em>thing.</p><p>Simon is here, or he has been here, and there is no way for that to be true unless Simon has some business here. It does not register that there is no reason for Simon to be on land anymore - not now that he has married and moved to the Undersea. There is only the thrumming of Sylvester’s heart in his chest and his breath coming in great gasps still and the smell of the traitor’s magic in his nose. He is not alone - he can’t be, and yet there is no sound but his own breathing. When he stills, there is no sound - no shimmer in the air, no spot that is hard to look upon that would indicate a glamour. Nothing. Nothing at all.</p><p>Sylvester stands slowly, carefully, and stalks toward the bedroom. If Simon is not here, in the living room then perhaps - </p><p>The bedroom is dusty. The bed has been made, and the curtains have been drawn, and there is nothing here - nothing at all - to suggest a living presence.</p><p>Simon is not here, but his magic lingers, and it takes Sylvester a moment to stop shaking and sink down onto the bed.</p><p>“It’s Simon’s apartment,” he murmurs to himself, realization dawning, and then he allows himself to sag forward and put his head in his hands. “Of course it is.” The apartment was bought six years ago - when Simon had upped stakes and left the human world behind in the wake of his patroness’s feigned death. Sylvester’s hands are still shaking, and his heart is still pounding a tattoo against his ribs and he still <em> itches </em>to punch something - anything, really, but there is nothing here to punch, no target for his fury or his grief or - or - </p><p>The apartment was Simon’s and so was this room and Sylvester has bought the place without ever realizing the identity of its former occupant. There can be no doubt - Simon Torquill’s stamp is everywhere in the place, and Sylvester does not want to see it. He is going to have to have the place stripped bare because - because - </p><p>Simon’s furniture is everywhere. His brother’s favorite colors are featured in the decor, and there are spots on the walls that are darker than the surrounding paint where shelves for alchemical ingredients must have sat once, all labeled in Simon’s legible, precise hand. The neatness of the bed and its position in the room and the entire stupid <em> properness </em> of the place positively <em> scream </em> Simon if the few possessions he’s left behind did not already. His twin - the other half of him, his little brother - was here once, not the monster who took Simon’s face and his voice and then stole away Luna and Rayseline and October in one fell blow. That man was here too but it was not him alone - it can’t have been, and Sylvester <em> does not want to know </em> that Simon is still <em> there </em> beneath everything. He can’t know it - he can’t <em> accept it</em>, can’t let the fact permeate -</p><p>It’s too late. It’s in front of him, surrounding him, as pervasive as the sunlight pouring in through the windows. Simon was here. He is not gone, and despite his anger Sylvester still loves him and he cannot tell him that because he hates him too and the two emotions are as close kin as he and his brother had once been. </p><p>He wants to hurt Simon as badly as he himself has been hurt, and he wants to declare all vengeance abandoned and what he wants most of all is to know what he wants again. </p><p>The door opens with a creak, and Sylvester barely hears it, absorbed in his pain as he is. His blood is still rushing in his ears. He thinks he might be keening, but he can’t quite tell - there’s a feeling in his chest like someone has taken hold of his heart and <em> squeezed </em> and - </p><p>Sylvester does not have time to react - does not even have time to look up before something hits him hard and he falls. Darkness gathers - and in it, he thinks he can just about see the figure of a woman, tall, and dark-haired, and pale as snow.</p><p>“Hello, <em> Simon, </em>” Eira Rosynhwyr purrs in his ear, and he gives in to the pull of the darkness at last. </p><hr/><p>Duchy of Saltmist, Ducal Quarters: </p><p>In the grand scheme of things, it has not been long at all since the last time Simon allowed someone to see him naked.</p><p>It’s only been a handful of years, really. Only two decades since the last time he went to bed with Oleander. Twenty years since the last time they had coupled, and yet, somehow - </p><p>It has not been long enough, or perhaps he is simply afraid that they will find something about his body displeasing. He stands in front of the bathroom mirror and runs a hand over his own bare chest. He sighs. There is nothing there that is ugly, he reasons with himself again. He does not bear scars from his time with Oleander. There are no lasting physical marks from his time in Eira Rosynhwyr’s clutches. Perhaps that is the issue. Perhaps he wishes that there were, if only so that his spouses could learn what they need to know by sight rather than painful recollection. </p><p>He is overthinking this. It has been five months to the day since he came home. Patrick and Dianda have been patient - so very patient with him, and tonight, he wants to reward their patience. He wants to be touched in all the ways he has seen them touch each other. He wants that tenderness, that passion. He <em> wants </em>this, and he is certain enough that that want is his own idea, now, to allow himself to relax his guard. He is not being manipulated. There is nothing about his desire to allow Patrick to pin him to the bed that is coerced, and he knows that Patrick and Dianda will take in stride whatever they learn about him from this. It’s foolish to hesitate any longer.</p><p>“Simon?” Patrick’s voice comes from the bedroom, and Simon starts. It is time - past it. He dims the light in the ensuite bathroom, runs a hand through his hair one last time, and steps out. Patrick and Dianda are waiting and hoping, ready for him to emerge and signal to them that their plans for the evening can continue.</p><p>He is wearing pajama bottoms and nothing more, and he can feel his heart beating fast in his chest. This is more skin than he has shown either of his spouses since he arrived and he tries to look like he is more confident than he is. He leans against the doorway in the way that he knows Patrick has always found alluring and gives his spouses a quick smile. </p><p>Patrick’s eyes widen minutely when he sees Simon standing in the doorway, and then he rises from the bed. He is, Simon notes, clad similarly in very little at all. He is - </p><p>Oak and ash and rowan, he is beautiful, well-muscled and smooth, and he is looking at Simon with the same shining, amazed appreciation that Simon feels in looking at Patrick. It is enough to chase away the remainder of Simon’s apprehension. This - </p><p>This is what being desired should feel like, he thinks. Not possession, nor predation, only the knowledge that his husband finds him a joy to look upon. He gives up the pretense of confidence and takes a step into the room, mouth suddenly dry and stomach doing flips in anticipation.</p><p>Anticipation, not fear, he realizes, and gives Patrick a small grin.</p><p>“I think I’m ready,” he says. </p><p>“You’re certain?” Patrick asks, coming closer. He takes Simon’s hands in his own, and Simon nods. </p><p>“Yes,” he answers. “I want this. I want you.” </p><p>Simon looks to Dianda, who has not left the bed. She, too, is wide-eyed and like Patrick, there is appreciation in the look she gives him. Her silk nightdress shimmers in the low light, accentuating her curves. They’ve agreed to let Simon come to her rather than the other way around for tonight - and to allow Simon to take the lead in bed for the first time in his long life. She extends a hand, beckoning. </p><p>“Come here,” she invites. Simon takes a deep breath - and turns back to Patrick, who is smiling at him encouragingly. </p><p>“It’s been a long time,” he says, and Patrick nods.</p><p>“I know,” he answers. </p><p>“I may not last -” Simon warns, and Patrick reaches forward with the hand that is not entwined with Simon’s. He touches Simon’s face, and then leans in, touching their foreheads together.</p><p>“We have time,” he murmurs, and Simon cannot help it - he tilts his head, and kisses Patrick with all of the passion that he is capable of. He is not going to be rushed. This is going to be gentle. He pulls Patrick backward while they kiss, toward the bed and Dianda, and they sink onto it, still kissing. The bed is soft and warm and Dianda’s hand on Simon’s bare arm is a gentle pressure. He pulls away from Patrick’s lips, and extends his arm to Dianda, who leans in to join them. Her lips brush Simon’s, and then Patrick’s, and Simon wraps his arm around her waist, bringing her in closer to him. She is still situated at the head of the bed, next to the lamp.</p><p>“Lights on, or off?” Dianda asks, and Simon smiles.</p><p>“On,” he answers, and then Patrick’s hand brushes the waist of his pajama bottoms, and Simon reaches up to caress Patrick’s hair with his free arm and - </p><p>He has forgotten how <em> good </em>this can all feel, but he is remembering now. Dianda kisses his shoulder and then Patrick pulls back, allowing Simon to turn his head to Dianda. Her dark blue eyes ask him for permission and he grants it with a nod, allowing her to take her turn at kissing him. Dianda’s kiss is different from Patrick’s - fierce where Patrick’s tends toward gentle comfort, and tonight, that is good too.</p><p>Simon does not want to be comforted overmuch tonight. Tonight, he wants the bits of him he left behind in Oleander’s bed back and while he cannot reclaim them all in one go, he wants at least the piece of him that was capable of expressing desire with a kiss. He allows her tongue past his lips and kisses back. Patrick has moved on to kissing his way down Simon’s neck, moving to his collarbone, where he nips, ever so slightly </p><p>Simon gasps. Dianda’s hand moves to Simon’s waist at the same time and Patrick pulls back, concerned, and looks at Simon. Dianda does not move her hand, but she does not continue, either.</p><p>“Alright?” Patrick asks, and Simon nods. </p><p>“Yes,” he confirms, and it <em> is. </em> That is the remarkable thing - this is all utterly fine - more than fine, <em> good</em>. He is not in Oleander’s bed, or Amandine’s, and the evidence is in the complete lack of anything resembling fear he feels in this exact moment. There is only warmth, and desire pooling low in his belly, and the scent of Dianda and Patrick. There is only warmth here, and even Patrick’s small nibble has not left a mark. Simon rubs the spot self-consciously nonetheless, and then looks to Patrick.</p><p>“You could - I think -” he starts, and then stops. He does not quite know how to get the words out to ask for what he wants, he realizes. Amandine had never asked, nor had Oleander, and it seems - uncouth, somehow, to say it, but they are going to wait for him to do it, and so he summons his courage, finally. “I’d like you to do that again,” he manages, and Patrick grins and complies. His teeth are gentle, and his tongue follows, and - </p><p>“Do you mind if I go a bit lower?” Dianda asks, and Simon turns his attention to her.</p><p>“Lower?” he asks, and is proud of how his voice does not turn into a squeak. Dianda turns kind eyes on him, and then raises her hand to his chest, hovering just above one nipple.</p><p>“Lower,” she clarifies, and Simon’s mouth surely cannot get any drier but it somehow manages to do so. He swallows hard.</p><p>Amandine had been remarkably unimaginative in bed, really, but Oleander - </p><p>Oleander had liked her games. There were - so many, many ways to make him beg, make him plead, and not all of the memory of it had faded with her death. As much as he wants Dianda to touch him - as much as he would even like them both to touch the more sensitive areas of his body - </p><p>Oleander had liked clamps, and whips, and the sound of his cries for mercy, and he wants the opposite of that, tonight. He meets Dianda’s eyes. </p><p>“No pinching,” he requests, and Dianda nods her understanding. </p><p>“You have my word,” she answers, and then licks her thumb and runs it over his nipple and he gasps again, arching into her touch even as Patrick continues, kissing the hollow of Simon’s throat and his neck. His hands are on Simon’s waist, playing with the string of his pajama bottoms, warm and steadying and - </p><p>And Patrick and Dianda deserve this same level of attention to be lavished upon them, Simon realizes. It’s only fair and if he does not begin to see to their needs soon, surely they will tire of him. He raises one hand to Patrick’s chin, distracting him from his attentions to Simon’s throat, and then kisses his husband firmly. He turns back to Dianda, and raises his hand to her face, fingers attempting to card through her hair - </p><p>Her hand grasps his and firmly, gently lowers it again. She does not let it go, though - she merely holds onto it.</p><p>“Tonight is not about us,” she says softly. “You can serve my desires some other night. I promise to be positively needy.” </p><p>Patrick has caught his other hand, and now the both of them are looking at him with compassion in their eyes. Simon starts and stares. </p><p>“I thought -” he begins, and Patrick shakes his head.</p><p>“No, Simon,” he says. “Not tonight. Let us learn what you like, please. Let me apologize for what that bitch did to you.” </p><p>That’s - that is - </p><p>Simon continues staring, and does not stop for a full minute. </p><p>“You want to apologize for -” he starts, and then shakes his head. “I brought that on myself,” he says, and then realizes that he is not sure which bitch Patrick actually means. He decides to go with Oleander for the moment - thinking about Amy and Eira is simply too much, and he’s still not convinced that he can think about the latter without drawing her attention, even miles under the water. “I went to Oleander’s bed and while it wasn’t my idea, I -”</p><p>“You didn’t deserve one bit of the things she did to you,” Patrick interrupts firmly. “I may not know what she did precisely but I know it’s left you convinced your own needs don’t matter. It’s left you frightened of being hurt again, and I don’t know of a better way to convince you that I’m not going to treat you the way she did than to learn what pleases you, and then let you learn the same about me. What you want matters. It’s always mattered.” </p><p>Simon can feel his breath quicken. He is - that is the most extraordinary statement, the most - </p><p>“I love you, you dear, sweet, <em> wonderful </em>man,” he manages to choke out at last, and then he is kissing Patrick, and being kissed back, and Dianda is shifting behind him. Her hands touch Simon’s shoulders and rub, and his free hand twines with hers, and he wants, more than anything else in the world right now, both to sob in relief and to be pinned down against this mattress and taken by both of them, possibly at the same time. He expresses as much when his lips are free once more, and Patrick smiles at him. </p><p>“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he asks, and then the rest of Simon’s night passes very, very pleasantly indeed. </p><hr/><p>Sylvester wakes in darkness. He is not certain where he is, but there is no light, and no warmth, and his entire body hurts. </p><p>There is - something digging into his back. And his arm. And - </p><p>His wrists are tied, and there is a <em> rose bush </em> behind him, driving thorns into his skin. He is not in a dungeon, but he might as well be for all the more he can move, and most importantly, he cannot feel his magic when he calls for it. </p><p>“Did you imagine I would leave you free to defy me again, little beast?” </p><p>This, Sylvester has time to think before the first wave of pain hits him, is bad. This is - </p><p><em> Pain. Agony. </em> Splitting, rending pain laced with cold <em> fire</em>. Eira Rosynhwyr is here, and the rose thorns are driving into his skin, past it, twisting and <em> stabbing </em> , piercing flesh. They are wrapped around his middle, dragging down his back like talons, twining into his <em> hair </em> and - </p><p>He screams, and vomits, and begs, and Eira laughs. </p><p>His wife loves him. She must, Sylvester thinks at the edges of what remains of his sanity. She loves him, for she has never done this with her roses, numerous though they have always been. His wife’s glass roses could never do this - could never draw this much of his blood - </p><p>Blood. He can - he could - </p><p>His magic will not rise, and Eira laughs again. </p><p>“Poor, stupid little beast - have you forgotten to whom you belong?” she mocks, and Sylvester gags again. It hurts - oh oak and ash it <em> hurts </em> -</p><p>The pain stops. The thorns withdraw, and he screams again. The blackness rises, and he passes out on the floor. There is nothing left. </p><p>He wakes whimpering and shivering and still bound at the wrists five minutes later. He is cold, and the blood is running down his back, and his shirt is now lying shredded on the ground.  </p><p>The roses move again, and Sylvester moans.</p><p>“If I had no need of a cat’s paw, you would make a lovely rose bush,” Eira’s voice whispers in his ear, and he shudders, and tries to pull away. She is here - she is in his mind, he can feel it - </p><p>“Simon Torquill, son of Septimius, son of Fómhar,” she murmurs, and Sylvester stiffens. “I might have known you would prove faithless.”</p><p>The thorns drive into his skin again. He screams - </p><p>She thinks he is Simon, he realizes in some distant part of his mind. She thinks that he is his faithless brother.</p><p>She is angry at Simon, and Sylvester is suffering for it, and it is also his salvation. She does not know who she has. She’s dampened his magic, kept him from betraying himself, but he is going to have to say something soon, before he can no longer think straight. If she does not know who he is - </p><p>Perhaps there is still a chance for Shadowed Hills to remain untouched. </p><p>“My lady,” he gasps, and the thorns<em> twist </em>- “My lady, forgive me -!”</p><p>The thorns withdraw. There are footsteps near him - approaching from behind and Sylvester cannot move, cannot even roll to see -</p><p>Bare feet stand in the snow by his head. Eira crouches. Her fingers thread through his hair - and then pull, viciously, and Sylvester yelps. He is still capable of feeling pain, somehow - he does not know how, since by all rights he should have gone numb some time ago. He rolls his eyes upward to meet the blue-eyed gaze of his great grandmother - his First, and knows that he is lost.</p><p>“My lady,” he gasps. “Please -”</p><p>The pain ebbs to an unbearable pitch, and then is gone, suddenly. He gasps again.</p><p>“Little beast,” Eira’s voice says again, and Sylvester whimpers in horror. She is in his head - he can feel her there, even as he feels himself shivering uncontrollably, feels the snow against his hands and the freezing cold air against his skin. She is in his head - he is lost - </p><p>“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and he does not know if he is saying it to Eira or to Simon or to someone else.</p><p>“Kill your wife’s changeling mistake,” Eira orders. “Kill October - and perhaps I will forget about the arrow. You will have to work harder to pay for your failure to wake me.” </p><p>She releases his hair, and walks away, and Sylvester tries not to weep with terror. </p><p>He cannot get back to his feet right now - he knows it. He stays, in the snow on all fours, and his head throbs and he does not <em> want </em>this he thinks in some small, tiny part of himself that is still his own. He does not want to hurt October - he wants to hurt Evening instead, rend her limb from limb for what she’s done to Rayseline - </p><p>There are no actual wounds on his skin, he realizes dimly. He starts to push himself off the ground, and then Evening is there again. Her lips are on his, and her eyes are full of cold, implacable, hatred and - </p><p>“I did not give you leave to rise,” she snarls, and then there is pain, and blood, and rose thorns, and cold.</p><p>So much cold, and the lady Winterrose above all.</p>
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